Long Cold Death: The Verity Long Mysteries, #6

By Lynda Wilcox

There are cold cases and then there are cold cases. The body in the freezer was about as frigid as it gets.

Researcher Verity Long is sent back to school to solve the year-old mystery of the murdered Food Technology teacher, and discovers that the victim got all she deserved.

Feeling sympathy for the murderer, for the first time in her career Verity considers quitting and returning to her researcher's job full-time.

But secrets and murder still lurk at the heart of the prestigious Crofterton Girls' College.

When another teacher is attacked and left for dead, Verity must learn her own hard lesson. If she quits now, the killer will strike again, and this time it could be Verity facing a...Long Cold Death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynda Wilcox
• Release date: Nov 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540154491

Lynda Wilcox

Lynda Wilcox's first piece of published writing was a poem in the school magazine. In her twenties she wrote Pantomime scripts for Amateur Dramatic groups and was a founder member of The Facts of Life, a foursome who wrote and performed comedy sketches for radio. Now she concocts fantasy stories for older children (10-13) and writes funny whodunits for adults. Lynda lives in a small town in England, in an untidy house with four ageing computers and her (equally ageing but very supportive) husband. She enjoys pottering in the garden where she grow brambles, bindweed and nettles along with roses and lilies. Oh! And slugs!  Slugs that feed well on everything but the brambles and weeds. Most of all, she loves to write —  it gets her out of doing the housework. She also reads a lot and enjoys good food and wine.

Book preview

Chapter 1

One sniff inside the place was enough for the memories to come flooding back, and with them the fear. I rubbed my sweating palms down the side of my trousers as the mingled smell of chalk dust and boiled cabbage hit my nostrils and I was twelve years old again.

School!

At the time, the nine long years I’d spent, first in junior school, and then at the grammar school, had seemed like Purgatory. The latter school’s motto had been Mores et Sapientia — Latin for Ways and Wisdom. Sadly, it instilled none of the second, and as for the first, I went my own way. I always have and I always will.

Day after day I was relentlessly teased, not only for my red hair, but also for my name and my tall thin figure. So Verity Long became Very Long and, sometimes, Very Long, Very Thin. Fellow pupils thought it hilarious; I hated it, and some of them.

I’d sworn I’d never go back yet here I was, not at my old alma mater but at the prestigious Crofterton Girls’ College and, to make matters worse, I was on my way to an appointment with the Headmistress.

I crossed the entrance hall to the open-tread staircase. It zigzagged up two flights and a half landing and at the top were two doors marked Staff Room and Headmistress – Mrs J Parr. I rapped on the latter, my heart pounding, and sternly reminded myself that I was not here to be castigated or punished, but on business. Deadly business.

Come!

Obeying the barked response to my knock, I entered the dragon’s den and my jaw dropped in surprise at the woman sitting behind the desk in front of the window.

The office was sparsely furnished. It contained a metal filing cabinet against the right hand wall and the desk with the usual complement of telephone, blotter, and computer terminal. Other than a coat stand and a pot plant on the window ledge, the office was bare. Not even a picture or a framed certificate sullied the pale blue walls.

Miss Long? Welcome to Crofterton Girls’ College. Do come in and have a seat.

Jane Parr was nothing like the Victorian principal I’d imagined. She was no grey-haired martinet in a high-necked dress and a pair of pince-nez. Instead a long colourfully patterned skirt, a cream silk blouse, and a pair of round dark-framed glasses under short brown hair met my gaze. She smiled reassuringly at me, as if aware of the terror her position inspired and the way her appearance dispelled it.

Pretending she’d had no effect, I shook the hand she offered, relaxed back in my chair, and took out my pad and pen.

Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Parr. I take it you know the reason I’m here?

The smile was replaced by a sombre and disapproving look. She nodded. Yes. Peter Hamilton, the Chairman of the Board of Governors, has been in touch. I am to give you every assistance in uncovering the killer of one of my teachers.

According to my information the murder had taken place just over a year ago and the body of Emily Rimmer discovered two days before the start of the new school year. As the only regular member of Crofterton Police’s Cold Case Unit the job had been passed to me at the insistence of George Johnson, the Assistant Chief Constable. The fact that, after Christmas, his twelve-year-old granddaughter was hoping to become a pupil at the prestigious establishment had absolutely nothing to do with it. Oh no, nothing at all. And the fact that the Chairman of Governors was the ACC’s brother-in-law was purely coincidental. Yeah, in a pig’s ear it was.

What’s more, the body had been bundled into a chest freezer in the school’s kitchen. Now, that’s what I call a cold case!

Still, I’d spoken to the Chairman and discussed how best to go about satisfying the ACC’s needs, while at the same time letting the Board know of any problems there might be in the running and functioning of the school. Problems other than a murderer on the loose, that is.

I shall be as discreet as I can, I assured her.

She pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead with a pudgy-fingered hand. Thank you, though I have to say that I’m not happy about the situation. Not happy at all. Having what amounts to a stranger wandering about the place, asking questions of my staff, disrupting the routine, it’s all most upsetting.

She bit her lip, her hands clasped tightly together. It was time to bring her back to reality.

I doubt Emily Rimmer was too happy about being murdered, either, Mrs Parr.

She took a moment or two to digest this.

You’re right. I’m sorry. I just hate to think that someone here might have done this.

It was the logical conclusion. There had been no report of any break-in, and the police had fetched out the janitor-cum-groundsman and done a thorough search.

It’s always possible that Emily came here with someone who then killed her, Mrs Parr. It’s one of the things I’ll be looking into.

Then I must hope that you find them.

Indeed. Now, what can you tell me of the circumstances surrounding Emily’s death?

I had read the police case notes thoroughly before I came, but I wanted to hear the headmistress’s take on things.

She was found on Monday, the 30th of August, by the college’s cook, Laura Cross, who had come in to prepare the kitchens after the six-week break.

Prepare the kitchens?

Yes. Obviously, the kitchens are left clean before we finish for the summer holidays, but Mrs Cross still likes to go over them again – a fair amount of dust can settle in that time. The freezer needs switching on and there are deliveries of fresh and dried goods to be taken in, and so on.

I see. Go on.

Well, she was surprised to find that the freezer, which had been unplugged, defrosted and left open in July, was already switched on and the lid closed. Mrs Parr gave a small shake of her head. The poor woman had a considerable shock when she opened it.

Very understandable.

I’d speak to Mrs Cross and the teachers when I came in again on Monday. In the meantime, I asked what she could tell me about Emily Rimmer.

She had a flat on St Thomas’ Road, just round the corner here. She taught Food Technology and –

Oh? And what might that be? Sorry to show my ignorance, but it’s a long while since I was at school and a lot of things have changed.

Yes, of course. She gave me an apologetic smile, wrinkles appearing at the corner of her eyes. Food Technology is cookery or domestic science.

Was Miss Rimmer a good teacher?

Yes, she came with glowing references and excellent qualifications.

Which was not the same thing, as far as I was concerned. My own Domestic Science teacher probably had impeccable credentials, but she couldn’t teach for toffee. Fortunately, I had an aptitude for the subject so she liked me, but she regularly reduced some of my less able classmates to tears.

How long had she been here?

Two years.

Was she popular?

So far as I know. I received no complaints about her.

Jane Parr answered my questions readily enough, but looked uncomfortable in doing so and I wondered why, when she herself was above suspicion with a rock solid alibi – she had not only been attending a symposium of head teachers eighty-odd miles away, but also on the platform addressing the gathering at the time that the pathologist reckoned Miss Rimmer had been killed.

I watched her fidget, tapping a pen against the blotter, while I made a few notes and waited for her to say what was on her mind.

Mr Hamilton mentioned that you would be working undercover. Is that right?

For the first time I noticed her eyes, brown with long lashes, and the way she had of staring at you, compelling you to tell her everything. Well, it might work well with her pupils, but at the age of thirty-two I was an older and wilier bird than that. The less people knew of my methods, and my reasoning, the better.

In a manner of speaking, yes. My superiors thought it best. If it meets with your approval, I think people will talk to me more readily if they believe that I am preparing a report for the governors on the general satisfaction of teachers and pupils in the school.

She leaned back, steepling her fingers on her chest, considering my cover story. She nodded a few times. Yes, I like that. They are used to Ofsted reports, they’ll just assume this is the same sort of thing.

It isn’t altogether untruthful, Mrs Parr. My findings, where they are relevant, will no doubt be passed on to Mr Hamilton.

Will it help you uncover Emily Rimmer’s murderer, though? After all, that is the only reason you’re here. She sat forward abruptly. Isn’t it?

I smiled. Of course, though I also happen to think that it is in the school’s best interests to solve this case. You must realise that it will help to reassure the parents of prospective pupils.

The cynic in me said it wasn’t so much the murder of one of the staff that bothered the Board of Governors as the loss of any parents – fee paying parents – as a result of there being a killer still on the loose at Crofterton Girls’ College.

To my surprise, Jane Parr waved my comment away with a flick of her hand. Our examination results speak for themselves, our Ofsted reports put us in the top twenty per cent in the country, and parents soon forget.

And thus had Emily Rimmer been swept under the carpet. I bit back the retort on my tongue. I might be here investigating for some time and it wouldn’t help to antagonise the Head.

Well, I think that’s all for now, so I won’t take up any more of your time. I dropped pad and pen back into my bag. What time would you like me here on Monday?

She opened a drawer and drew out what looked like an appointments diary. Ten o’clock will be fine. I’ll give you a tour of the school and introduce you to the teachers during the lunch break. I’ll forewarn them that you’re coming and tell them you’re conducting a report for the Governors.

Thank you.

Please, Miss Long, she said as she rose to show the interview was at an end, cause as little disruption as you can. This is a very busy time in the school year.

I’m sure it is.

I took my leave without pointing out that as well as a damned good education, I also had an honours degree in DDI—Disruption, Disturbance and Interference. If I had to ruffle a few feathers to uncover Emily Rimmer’s murderer, I would do so.

* * *

I walked through the school grounds, past the science block, sports hall and tennis courts, considering this latest case and wondering why, a year ago, the police had failed to find the killer. What vital thread had they not followed, what clue had eluded them? The answers to these and a lot more questions would probably be found in the fat folder sitting on my desk at home. I’d had no more than a chance to skim through it since Detective Chief Inspector Jeremy Farish had passed it to me at dinner last night.

Thinking of dinner reminded me that it was past lunchtime and my stomach growled with hunger, but a diet of pizza or, worse, boiled cabbage in the school’s dining room did not appeal. I could go home to Fernbank for something to eat, or stay in town and call in at the ABC wine bar for one of their lavishly buttered and filled ham baguettes. I might even risk a small glass of Merlot.

Drooling at the thought, I left the car where it was and walked the few streets to the town centre. The grey, drizzly November day had kept most shoppers at home, though by now I expected the ABC, and the next door restaurant Chez Jacques, to be busy with businessmen dawdling over their expense account lunches.

Both establishments were owned and run by my oldest friends, Valentino and Jacques D’Aumbray. Val had given me away at my wedding two months ago, as I no longer had a father to fulfil that role, and Jacques, the older brother and chef patron of the restaurant, had provided us with the venue for our reception and an excellent luncheon after the ceremony.

Since then I’d seen them only rarely and now was as good a time as any to put that right.

I stepped inside the ABC raising a hand to wave to Val, and just as quickly lowered it again. The Frenchman was not behind the bar. I glanced among the packed tables, searching for the good-looking dark-haired figure with the broad shoulders and slim hips and was all set to march into the kitchen and fling my arms around him, when I realised someone had beaten me to it. He stood at the end of the counter, draped in a shapely brunette, and would have seen me were his face not buried in her neck, his arms around her waist, holding her close.

Like a kangaroo kick in the solar plexus I recognised the blue-suited back and the mass of chestnut curls tumbling down and over her shoulders.

My best friend in a clinch with Constable Becky Bowles, my assistant?

Stunned, I stopped in mid-stride, then spun on my heel and tiptoed out, eager to get away without being seen.

How long had this been going on?

I marched back through the streets to where I had parked.

Hurt, upset, confused, and angry, tears streamed down my face as I got in the car. I switched on the engine as the heavens opened and the rain poured down, just as it had done all those years ago, on the night that I first met the Frenchmen.

* * *

At the age of twenty I had gone to work in Paris in the mistaken belief that this would teach me about men, and love, and chic. It didn’t. All I learned was that a man needs a woman when his wife is sick or away from home, that I didn’t want to be that woman, and that the French for dustbin is poubelle.

I might not have had a lot to show for my time spent working in France if my kindly employer hadn’t sensed my broken heart – and aversion to housework –and packed me off, away from the capital, to their vineyards and winery in the Burgundy region.

"May I suggest that you drive down, Mam’selle. In this way you will see more of la belle France, and have a holiday at the same time. They are not expecting you in Beaune until the 29th and I’m sure you will enjoy the journey."

I doubted that. Although I had the use of a small company car I’d barely used it. Driving around Paris was a nightmare at best and suicidal at worst. Besides it really hadn’t been necessary; the city had excellent bus and underground systems and I enjoyed travelling on the Metro.

However, M. Rosigny’s idea of my leaving Paris with its difficult memories behind me for a while was a good one and learning more about wine, and the process of making it, did have its attractions. So, two weeks later, I’d set off.

And got lost in France.

The rain had lashed down, glistening like knife blades in the street lights. It wasn’t fit for a dog to be out, let alone a stupid woman who’d run out of petrol in the middle of nowhere and now trudged through the small town of Tours l’Évêque, footsore and weary, and looking for help, or shelter at the least.

Unsurprisingly, I appeared to have the place to myself, but ahead of me a beam of light shone out like a beacon in the darkness. I prayed that it might be a garage still open, though knowing my luck I fully expected to see an all-night laundry at the top of the hill. I hastened my steps, drawn on by the sound of voices, and music, and the chink of glassware.

Six men looked up as I entered the Café-Bar des Deux Frères, four clustered around a table football at the rear, while one served a solitary